Blistering, Boiling, Burning

It's hot.

Our swamp cooler is limping along, trying to keep up with the rising temperatures.  The smallest exertion causes me to drip.  I don't want to do anything.  I don't want to clean. I don't want to cook. I want to lay on my bed, under my ceiling fan, and try not to move.


My house doesn't care that we're rivaling Hell today.  Dishes must be washed and floors vacuumed. I feel the bead of sweat as it travels down my back. I bend over and get drops on my glasses.  My hair, which I grew out for some strange reason, is always damp and begs to be put up off my neck.

The day finally ends and the Handy Man and I are lying on our bed atop the covers.  The ceiling fan brushes a slight breeze over my legs. I'm grateful that the sun has slid into slumber and the mercury is making its way back down. I close my eyes to enjoy the quiet.

But, it isn't quiet. Across the hall, one daughter is on her phone, exclaiming about the wonders of her new laptop.  Downstairs, the five boys are playing Monopoly.  Paying and collecting and trying to outwit each other. And, trying out new voices.  Outside my window, I can hear the other daughter on the tramp with her BFF.  They laugh and chat over whatever it is 16 year-old's are concerned with.

Part of me wants to shush them-- the Handy Man has to get up early.  But, I hold back.  They feel it, too, the sweltering crush.  The girls come home from camp all wilted and brown.  The boys try to explore outside and return with red cheeks and thirsty bodies.  Tonight, they're simply responding to the cooling air.  They want to play and just be, without the oppressing fever of the day.

I let them be. They will make their way to bed when their bodies tell them it's time.  Then we'll rest and recharge for tomorrow.  It's gonna be a scorcher.